


Hope of Heaven

by FierceWeeBadger



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23659126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FierceWeeBadger/pseuds/FierceWeeBadger
Summary: A wee missing moment around the campfire...Mild NSFW.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 79
Kudos: 270





	Hope of Heaven

Jamie wasn’t much bothered by the cold. 

Even as a wee lad, he would leap into the freezing loch without a second thought, swimming and splashing until his lips turned blue. And he could still recall clear as day the time Jenny had stolen the last honeyed bannock right out of his hand, thinking she could escape by running out the kitchen door into the kaleyard. Despite his lack of shoes, Jamie had chased her into the frosty garden, intent on reclaiming his prize despite his mam’s howls that he’d “catch yer death of cold, clotheid!” 

No, he didn’t mind the chill. But nonetheless, he loved the fire. 

There was something about the crackling of embers that called to him, a music that bypassed his tone-deaf ears and spoke straight to his soul. Perhaps it was just a feeling passed down from his ancestors, from a time when fire meant safety from the wild beasts and terrors of the darkness. Or maybe it just reminded him of the home he missed and the feeling of family all around -- the air suffused with quiet contentment as much as the smell of peat smoke. 

As he leaned down to place another log on the fire, his thoughts drifted to the new ‘family’ which surrounded him now, sitting around the campfire on this crisp evening. 

Rupert was telling tales, as he did most nights on the road -- Jamie hadn’t really been listening tonight, but he thought this one was about a dragon and some buxom maidens. Angus was sharpening his knives, the rasp of the whetstone adding another note of music to the air. Willie was tending to the horses, double checking that the lines were secure as they settled in for the night. Dougal and Ned sat off to one side, heads bent over a parchment, likely discussing money of one kind or another. And Murtagh was reclining against a rock, scraping something from under his nails with his _sgian-dubh_ \-- outwardly calm and relaxed, but eyes ever alert and scanning for danger. 

Jamie had always loved nights like these, sleeping outdoors with only the stars above him, watching the clouds of his own breath drift upwards to meet them. He enjoyed the company of the lads, the ribald jokes and full belly laughs. It almost felt like having a brother again, the knowledge that these men would fight back-to-back with him. No, it wasn’t _quite_ the same -- of these men, his godfather was the only one he trusted implicitly and without question. But this camaraderie was better than nothing, better than the aching loneliness he’d felt during his time in exile. 

But in that moment, loneliness was something he never expected to feel again in his life, and the company of the men around the fire was more an impediment to his joy than a comfort. 

He would have traded his very soul for a soft bed, four walls and a door that _locked._

She drew his gaze like a magnet, returning from her brief ablutions in the nearby stream and stepping into the light. It caressed the graceful lines of her face, danced in her golden eyes when they met his across the fire. 

_Claire._

_His wife._

_The true family of his heart._

She was radiant -- there really was no other word for it. Her ivory skin glowed in the firelight, and Jamie could have sworn she was sculpted from marble but for the fact that she moved. 

It was only when she settled herself gently in his lap that he noticed she was shivering. Quickly taking her hands in his own, he decided that he had been quite wrong; his wife was obviously carved from _ice,_ not marble. 

_“A Dhia,”_ he exclaimed, hurrying to wrap his plaid firmly around them both. “Ye’re frozen half to death, Claire. Why did ye no’ let me warm some water for you to wash?”

“I didn’t think…” she stammered through chattering teeth, “...didn’t think it would be so bad. You ...wash...in the stream...after all…”

Jamie let out a small chuckle and clutched her more tightly to his chest. “Aye, I do. But ye see, my father was actually a selkie, so I’m immune to the cold. I’m afraid English roses dinna fare sae well in the Highlands.”

She huffed indignantly, squirming to wrap an arm around him and nestle her head into the crook of his neck. “Are you calling me a wilting flower?”

“I would never dare, Sassenach. I’ve no’ forgotten the most important thing about roses, aye?”

“Mmm, and what’s that?”

He tilted his head to whisper teasingly in her ear. “They have thorns.”

“And don’t you forget it, James Fraser,” she replied, gently bumping her forehead against his. 

“If ever I do, I’m sure ye’ll remind me.” He brushed his nose against hers, cherishing the warm breath they now shared together.

They continued to sit that way for some time, wrapped up in their own cocoon of warmth and contentment. Jamie still couldn’t quite believe how drastically his entire life had transformed in so short a time. If someone had told him a week ago that he’d be a married man -- and not only that, but married to the most beautiful, vibrant woman he’d ever laid eyes on -- he’d have called that person mad. Yet here he sat, holding an entire world in his arms; a world of possibility and hope, for the home they would build, the bairns they would raise. Of course he still had his worries, not least of which was the bounty hanging like a dark cloud over their heads, but they would face those obstacles together. And if they ended up having to leave Scotland behind...that thought didn’t pain him as much as it once had. 

All would be well so long as his Sassenach was by his side. 

Eventually the fire burned low and it was time to turn in for the night. 

By silent agreement, they chose a spot just at the edge of the clearing, as far away from the men clustered around the glowing embers as could be managed. They settled down together in a pocket of warmth, nestled like spoons in a drawer. Jamie wrapped his arm around his wife and nuzzled her hair with his nose. The smell of her brought him back to their wedding night, when he’d held her in his arms for the very first time, convinced that at any moment he would wake from that blissful dream. 

His reverie was interrupted when she snuggled in closer, her perfect round arse rubbing against him in _just_ the right way, and he let out an involuntary moan, a shiver running through his entire body. 

“Oh, so it’s like _that,_ is it?” she whispered over her shoulder, showing no mercy by promptly pressing against him with more force. “If only we weren’t surrounded by twenty men, my lad.”

Jamie couldn’t stifle the grunt that was forced from his lungs. Had this woman no notion of what she did to him? How she could drive him wild by doing nothing more than drawing breath? 

Of course she did, the wee vixen. But two could play that game; it wasn’t only female foxes who could bite, after all. 

With nimble fingers, he reached up and undid the laces at the front of her bodice. The small gasp when he found her nipple was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. He continued to caress her, kissing the back of her neck as he went, then gently nipping her earlobe for good measure.

“I need to be inside ye _now,_ Claire _.”_ His words came out in a faint growl which rumbled through his body and reverberated in her own. “And you? What is it ye need, _mo nighean donn?”_

The way she pressed firmly back against him was all the answer he needed. 

His hand changed course and found the hem of her skirts, pulling them up until he felt the silky softness of her thighs, flush against his own. When his fingers found her center, sunk into the velvety wet heat of her, he thought he might die right there and then. 

God but he wanted to _taste_ her! Wanted to lay her open before him, legs thrown over his shoulders, and feel her finish against his tongue. 

But of the ways to discreetly make love in a camp full of men, that one was not at the top of the list. Instead, he slowly rocked into her from behind, continuing to tease that small bundle of nerves with his strong fingers, savouring every stifled gasp and shaky breath he drew from her. 

He hadn’t known it could be like this; that he could let go the knowledge of his body to the extent that he no longer knew where he ended and Claire began. He’d expected sex to be pleasurable; what he hadn’t reckoned was that the desire to chase _her_ pleasure could outstrip the need for his own -- that his body, his limbs, were nothing more than tools to worship this woman. 

Jamie could tell she was close. His wife was a vocal woman, in the bedroom not least of all. 

“Hush, Sassenach,” he whispered, clamping his hand over her mouth, “ye’ll wake the whole camp with yer wee noises.”

“Mmm,” she groaned, and then did something he hadn’t expected. She took one of his fingers into her mouth, rolling it around on her tongue, sucking hard. 

“Oh God, oh Christ, Claire,” he gasped, driving into her as they both fell over the edge. 

…

Jamie returned to consciousness with a jolt, his stomach lurching as if he’d missed a step going down stairs. 

He still felt the aftershocks of his finish coursing through his body, but the curls in which he’d buried his face were now gone. The smell of her seemed to linger in the air for a moment -- the scent of warmth, of growing things in bloom -- as if her ghost were still near. But then it was gone, replaced by the smell of cold ashes and unwashed men. 

A moment ago, he had felt the weight of his wife in his hands, every curve of her so full of life and promise. Now all he felt was a leaden weight in his heart, an anchor dragging him down and down to the depths of the ocean where no light could penetrate. 

Jamie rolled over onto his back -- doing his best to muffle the clanking of his shackles -- and stared up at the black stone ceiling. He felt the tears course down his face, leaving tracks that stung with the cold, but he couldn’t bring himself to wipe them away. Instead, he silently watched the clouds of his breath drift upwards, just as they had on that night so many years ago -- a different man, a different life. 

Part of him sometimes wondered if any of it had even been real, if it all hadn’t been a dream from the start. In those moments, he clung fiercely to the pain like a piece of driftwood at sea, his despair the only thing keeping him afloat; for if the utter devastation he felt was real, then surely the joy must have been as well. 

No force but _love_ could have hollowed him so, carved away the pieces of his soul which he’d laid to rest at the feet of those terrible stones. 

He didn’t know why fate had spared him from blessed oblivion on that bloody moor. Perhaps these long years of living without a heart were punishment for his sins, of which there were many. Perhaps it was for the sake of those still living who needed him -- the men of Ardsmuir, Jenny, Ian, Fergus…

Or perhaps it was so he could still pray for them every day; to beseech God to watch over his wife and child, in whatever time, in whatever place. 

But right now he didn’t feel like speaking to God; that could wait for morning. 

Instead, he reached out to his Sorcha, his light who had passed beyond the veil of time. 

_Claire, I swear by my hope of heaven, I will find ye again -- in this world or the next._


End file.
